The Shoe Store
by Watermelonsaregood
Summary: AU. Just because they're both gay and both happen to work in the same shoe store, doesn't mean they have to date... or does it?
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: The Shoe Store (1/2?)  
**Pairing**: Rachel/Quinn  
**Author**: boredblueberry  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Length**: 1,000+ (2,660)  
**Spoilers**: None  
**Summary**: AU. Just because they're both gay and both happen to work in the same shoe store, doesn't mean they have to date... or does it?  
**A/N**: Wanted to finish this earlier, but it's turning out to be longer than I thought. I'd like to thank Payless ShoeSource for this idea, haha.  
**A/N 2**: Just ignore the lack of spaces next to italics, I don't even know why it does that. Ugh.

* * *

It's her first day on the job and she's already struggling.

You watch her from the counter— just because there's nothing else to do and no customers around. She's on her tiptoes, attempting to place a box of wedges on the slanted rack.

Vaguely, you remember hearing from Ms. Pillsbury that her name is Rachel… _something _or other. You haven't met Rachel formally, and it's not your job to train her, so naturally you keep your distance.

She's cute, you've got to admit. Definitely short, and not to mention _loud_. This morning her laugh carried all the way from the back room, through the front doors, and into the parking lot where you were getting out of your car.

A characteristic like that would normally annoy the hell out of you, but from her it's oddly charming.

The struggling, as cute as it looks, is starting to get pathetic, so you decide to help her out.

"Need help?" you offer, eyeing her feet. She's wearing flats from this very store… Maybe she's already used her employee discount.

For a second, she stops. She glances at you, doe-eyed. She blushes in embarrassment, then tries again.

"No…" She stretches. "…Thank you. I'm… perfectly capable… on my own." Stretch.

All the stretching is making her adorable animal sweater ride up. The owl printed on it ogles at you.

You smirk. "If you say so. If you need anything, I'll be over there." You gesture to the cash register, then walk away.

This Payless ShoeSource just happens to be on the corner of a very vacant strip mall. There tends to be more customers, but recently an actual mall was built less than a block away, stealing this store's customers. (The new mall has at least one Steve Madden, a Converse store, Skechers, and several others.) Needless to say, business at their Payless ShoeSource is slow.

You only get paid about eight dollars an hour, and most of the time you're sitting around waiting for a customer. It's dull and sometimes you wonder if it's worth the money to be bored out of your mind.

So far, the most entertaining thing right now is Rachel.

She's still struggling, mind trapped with tunnel vision— completely oblivious to the small stool five feet away.

She has great legs, you notice. Strangely long for someone so short, toned and nicely tan. They stick out perfectly from her plaid skirt, almost teasing you.

Eventually, you feel both perverted and sorry for the girl, so you wander over, take the box from her, and place it on the rack.

Rachel stammers incoherent excuses, pride coming into play again. Pink-faced, she mumbles, "Thanks."

She looks down, blinking at your shoes.

Following her gaze, you stare at your feet. You're wearing lace-up wedges bought from this very store. They're also the same shoes Rachel has been struggling with for the past ten minutes.

A customer comes in.

Rachel hurries to greet and assist them, breaking eye contact from your feet.

* * *

At break, you end up sitting next to her.

For a snack, she's brought along an organic granola bar. She hums an unfamiliar song as she carefully unwraps it.

You grin as you look away, casually flipping through a magazine as you drink your lemonade.

"Do you want some?" Rachel offers, snapping the bar in half.

You're not even hungry, but you take half anyway. "Thanks."

Rachel smiles cutely, thinking she's already made a coworker into a friend.

So far, there are only three people who work here on the weekend; you, Rachel, and Ms. Pillsbury. Ms. Pillsbury's a nice boss, a bit of a neat freak, but still otherwise nice. Your work ethic is usually non-existent, but you've bought enough wedges from this store for her to overlook that and hire you.

You wonder why Rachel's working here. Did she buy enough flats to be considered for the job?

The granola bar tastes like Styrofoam, making you regret taking it… But the taste is definitely worth the smile on Rachel's face.

...If she's not into you, _maybe _you could be friends.

_Oops_. As you nibble on the bland treat, a chunk of it snaps off and falls to the floor.

"I'll get it," Rachel offers, but you both end up saying the phrase in unison.

The stupid granola bar left more crumbs than you realize, all going unnoticed sitting scattered on the floor. Ms. Pillsbury would probably kill you if you left the mess there. You stand up before Rachel does, duck down and get it-

You're suddenly three feet away from Rachel's gorgeous legs.

Jeez, is her skirt really _that _short? The muscles in her calves shift as she uncrosses them, crouching to meeting you under the table.

She doesn't bother getting up to fetch a dust pan or anything like that, instead scooping the crumbs into her bare hands.

Again, she starts humming the song from earlier. This makes you stare at her... _again_. She notices this time, glancing up and blinking at you curiously.

"Hmm?"

The shade underneath the table hides your pink face. "Nothing," you say coolly. "You didn't have to-"

"Oh, it's perfectly fine, Quinn." Rachel smiles and continues, "It was my granola bar and Ms. Pillsbury might get upset- Well, I guess it would be her obsessive–compulsive disorder talking, but either way, it was mine, and I don't want to get fired on my first day here."

It must have taken a week for Ms. Pillsbury to tell you about her condition. You can only imagine how or why Ms. Pillsbury's told Rachel on her first day.

She's less than a foot away from your face. And being this close to her makes your whole body heat up, your heart fluttering like an itty-bitty butterfly trapped in a mason jar.

You don't want her to see your flushed face- with this lack of space, she'd probably hear your heartbeat. You shoot up, banging your head against the underside of the table.

"Ugh!"

Getting out from underneath, you clutch your head in annoyance. It's still her first day, and you've already embarrassed yourself in front of her.

"A-are you okay?" Rachel worriedly reaches for you, grasping at the sides of your head.

You try to pull away, blushing again. "It's okay. I'm totally-"

She doesn't listen, now speeding to the nearby freezer. She rummages past the tubs of ice cream (you're not sure why those are there), and returns with an ice pack.

"It's not that bad," you try to reassure her, but that doesn't stop her from holding the ice pack to your head. "Rachel, I'm fine."

She brushes away your long locks of hair, searching for any visible damage.

"I _wholeheartedly_ blame my granola bar. I am _so _sorry, Quinn..." she rambles on and on about the importance of breakfast and midmorning snacks. Also exercise. Somehow, this leads into the practice of law and how suing a shoe store probably wouldn't get you anywhere. And not to mention how depressed Ms. Pillsbury would be after a lawsuit.

Rachel guides you to a nearby chair like you're some kind of poor baby lamb. It's sweet, but there's no way a bump on the head is this serious.

She forces you to sit. Standing before you, she continually holds the ice pack to your imaginary head injury.

You barely know each other, but you're tempted to try to make her more than a friend. It would be too forward to ask her out so soon, and anyway, she might not even agree to a date- she'd take it as a joke. And that's the problem.

Is Rachel Berry even gay?

You want to find out, though you're not sure how.

* * *

Brittany S. Pierce is the first customer to come in after break.

You know her from school, but you don't really talk that much. The only similarity between you is that you both happen to have the same Spanish class. She likes copying your answers, even though her best friend (girlfriend) is fluent in the language.

Her eyes wander to Rachel first, but Rachel doesn't even go to the same school, so instead she goes to you.

Thankfully, you've gotten rid of the ice pack (without a certain worrywart coworker noticing), before leaving the back room.

"Hey, Quinn," Brittany smiles.

As the two of you chat, you can see Rachel in your peripheral vision. She's eyeing Brittany carefully...

Brittany asks about recent sales, wanting to know if children's sizes fit cat feet. _Fat _cat feet.

You lead her to the children's section and suggest size one- though you doubt chubby cat paws can actually fit in baby Converse.

When Brittany leaves, Rachel is still watching you, frowning in thought. She looks even cuter when confused, you decide. You aren't exactly sure of what she's confused about, but you get a good feeling from those full, pink lips.

"Do you know her?" your coworker wonders casually, but you see the worry in her frown and furrowed brows. Maybe she thinks you still need the ice pack?

You nod, "Yeah, we go to the same school."

Along with the confused facial expression, Rachel points out,

"She was staring at your breasts."

_...What?_

Feeling flustered, you sputter, "T-that wasn't-" So _that_ was why Rachel was staring. You try to brush off Brittany's habitual gawking with a quick lie, "I mean, she has an eye problem, like, _lazy eye _or something."

"Oh." Rachel seems to believe you.

As the two of you get back to work, stacking shoe boxes and tending to new customers, it hits you. Rachel probably wouldn't have known Brittany was staring at your chest without at least glancing at it herself.

* * *

Both you and Rachel work over the weekend, so you only see each other on Saturdays and Sundays. The pair of you tend the store and help out customers while in the minuscule office, Ms. Pillsbury works on papers, finances, and cleaning the accumulation of dust on unpurchased items.

It turns into a routine: on weekdays, you have school and home life, on weekends you have Rachel and Ms. Pillsbury.

You've already learned a bit about the brunette; she likes- no, _lives _for- Broadway theatre and musicals. Which seems to be the only thing one needs to know about Rachel Berry.

After getting out of your car the next Saturday, you barely grasp the door handle when-

"Good morning, Quinn," Rachel greets cheerily, walking towards you. "How's your head?"

So far, the only memorable things about this job are meeting Rachel, the discounts, and sustaining a minor, minor, minor head injury.

Slyly, you smile back and knock playfully on your noggin. "Couldn't be better."

Finding this funny, she giggles softly... It's strange because the last time you heard her laugh, the volume was equal to an elephant. An _adorable _elephant, though.

Wanting to keep that contagious smile on her face, you hold the door open for her. "You first."

Success. Rachel's smile transforms into a full-on beam.

"Why, thank you," she laughs. It's a little louder this time.

* * *

It turns out that Rachel Berry is best friends with someone from your school; Kurt Hummel, the only kid who's officially 'out'. He doesn't seem to have many friends at your school, so it's nice to see him with Rachel.

You identify yourself as a lesbian, but... You're one of the few people who know that. Considering how terrible the bullying can get at William McKinley High School, it's brave of Kurt to be out.

They look like siblings, you think faintly- maybe half-siblings since Rachel clearly has the more dominant gene traits.

You aren't expecting her to bring Kurt over to the counter. You don't even talk to him at school, so he probably won't recognize you.

"This is Quinn," Rachel introduces you happily, gesturing with an open palm.

In your right hand you're currently holding a cluster of change, so immediately you drop the coins just in case he wants a handshake.

Kurt blinks, recognizing you. "We've already met," he says. There's this smile on his face that baffles you... "Rachel's told me a lot about a coworker, but I didn't know you work here. She said-"

Rachel cuts in and babbles incoherently for a bit, (her words zip by much too fast), then hurriedly leads him by the hand to the shelves of shoes.

_"Rachel's told me a lot about a coworker, but I didn't know you worked here."_

...What does that even mean? A lot? About a coworker? Ms. Pillsbury doesn't count, she's the boss. You're the only _coworker_ here! What, do they talk about you outside this building- or better yet, _Rachel _talks about you?

There's a shock that goes through your brain, just the tiniest jolt. Surely she has feelings for you, if not the romantic kind, then at least you know she cares about you.

_Idea_.

As quietly as you can, (much like a ninja), you creep over to the back room, grab a few shoe boxes, and station yourself in the aisle of size 7's.

You don't even care that the boxes you're holding actually belong in the size 9's.

"We're in the wrong section," Kurt points out. His voice is just barely audible.

Rachel argues back, "The men's section is too close to the back room."

It's sort of unfortunate/fortunate that you can't see through the shelves. It's harder to hear them, but at least they can't see you.

"First of all, fashion has no gender. I thought you already knew that-" There's quiet shuffling as he picks up a box. "I meant size-wise. These are all nines."

"Oh." You can practically hear the pout in her voice. "Well, I'm sorry my feet are too tiny."

You're starting to feel stupid for just standing here and doing nothing, (though that isn't new in this job). You want to put the shoes away to feel busy, but you don't want to cut in on their conversation-

"-same school as Quinn. And I can't believe you almost told her!" She sounds almost angry, but mostly excited...

More shuffling. "She has to know sooner or later, and I doubt you'll ever say it to her face."

_What? Know what? _You don't want to make assumptions, but darn it. It's starting to sound more and more like... You don't want to get your hopes up.

Rachel huffs, almost defensively. "We're barely even friends, Kurt. We don't even see each other outside of work and I don't really know her that well. You know how I feel about that."

_Feel about what_? You wonder desperately. Is it possible that she wants to be just friends with you? But then why all the mystery and keeping things from you?

_"We're barely even friends."_

Rachel wouldn't be so worried about being friends unless she's worried about being something more, or at least that's what you tell yourself.

"I mean, what would we talk about?"

You decide to stop over-thinking and turn around. It's not good for you to be eavesdropping.

"Shoes."

She laughs. The usual volume. "Aside from the obvious."

"Well, you don't have to be friends first. You could do both."

Wait. You've already started walking away, why are they getting louder? _Oh_. They're walking to the aisles with smaller sizes.

You faintly wonder what size feet she has, which leads to you feel like a creep for even thinking that.

Instead, you put the shoes you're holding away- you end up returning them to the back room since the duplicates haven't been sold yet.

When Kurt leaves around closing time, you surprise her.

"Do you want to go see a movie?"

Judging from the second of awe on her face, she's having an experience similar to a mind reader's volunteer. You feel satisfied knowing you have the best timing, and it's a good way for her to get to know you.

Rachel smiles bashfully, in that perfectly sweet way of hers. "Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: The Shoe Store (2/3?)  
**Pairing**: Rachel/Quinn  
**Author**: boredblueberry  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Length**: 1,000+ (2,213)  
**Spoilers**: None  
**Summary**: AU. Just because they're both gay and both happen to work in the same shoe store, doesn't mean they have to date... or does it?  
**A/N**: Oh wow, I'm not too sure about this one... I was hoping this would be the ending, but this ended up being longer than I thought.

* * *

You've been on dates with boys before, and you're well acquainted with the routine: the traditional way the guy initiates the date, pays for just about everything, drives you around, and the kiss after he drives you back home. (Everyone knows how old fashioned you can get...) And you _never _kiss on the first date.

Rachel, despite bringing her car to work, insists that you carpool to the movies. "If it's okay with you, I mean. I would just need a ride back here."

"If you're sure."

She nods vigorously, adding, "I'm positive." She seems excited?

You lead Rachel to your car, opening the passenger side door. Rachel smiles at the gesture; it brings back memories of your first date with your first boyfriend-

_Wait a minute._

First of all, you tell yourself, this _isn't _a date.

Anyway, you know from the start that being with Rachel is different. It could be because you're going out as friends- or the obvious _fact _that you're totally gay for this girl- but you feel comfortable and more natural with her.

...As the official 'date initiator', does that mean _you're _the one paying for everything?

You ignore the question as you start the car and drive off.

* * *

There's the option of going to a regular movie theatre, but the ol' drive-in is a lot closer to the shoe store. Thankfully it's cheaper, though coming here could be either an advantage or disadvantage depending on what day it is. Usually they play any genre of movies from the 80's and prior, but on some days it's B movies or idiotic comedies, sometimes both.

Thankfully it's a musical. You've heard of it before, though you've never actually seen it: Funny Girl.

Out of delighted surprise, Rachel gasps beside you, saying, "I love this movie!"

You shouldn't be surprised, just now remembering her love of all things musical. You smile as if you had planned to watch this specific movie with her.

"I figured you'd like it."

Rachel beams as you pull in to buy tickets. "It's my favorite. Barbra is purely brilliant, both in the comedic sense and because of her outstanding musical abilities. Also, rollerskating."

It's cute that she's referring to a famous singer by their first name; as if she and Barbra Streisand are best friends.

"I've never seen it before."

Startled, Rachel lets out a strangled gasp, hands flying to her rosy-pink cheeks. "You've _never _seen Funny Girl?"

You shake your head, saying, "My parents aren't into musicals, so I'm pretty ignorant about them."

She shakes her head. "I just can't believe my well-tuned ears..."

Letting out a laugh, you move to retrieve your wallet from your purse. "It's true, believe me."

Rachel watches you before doing the same, reaching for her purse. She wonders aloud, "We're going Dutch, right?"

"Don't bother. It's totally fine, Rachel." You stick your hand out to prevent her wallet from appearing. "It's on me."

"But Quinn," the smaller girl starts, wallet clutched in one trembling hand, "Funny Girl is a _legend_. In fact- offence _not _intended- I feel the utmost pity for you."

You raise a brow before turning away to pay for the tickets. You don't feel insulted, but you're certainly charmed by her love for the movie. With a fan as enthusiastic as Rachel, you're sure it's good.

Driving into a spot, you park and take the keys out. At this time of evening, it's cool enough outside not to need the air conditioning.

You crank the window down, reaching out to bring in one of the tiny speakers.

"We should probably get popcorn," you decide, putting the speaker back.

Turning to Rachel, you notice there's a problem. Feebly, (in an adorably-and-pathetically-cute-Rachel-like way), the brunette struggles to open the window, tugging at the crank. It's just like before with the box of wedges. And again, she's oblivious to the fact that she's turning it the wrong way...

"Need help?"

She shakes her head firmly. "No…" She tugs. "…Thank you. I'm… perfectly capable… on my own." Tug.

You chuckle at her stubbornness. At this rate the crank is going to break. Not wanting to let her get away with it, you lean over and reach down to turn it for her.

"Ah..." She utters a weak protest, blushing as you're centimeters away from her lap. You even grab the speaker for her, holding it out for her to take.

"There you go," you grin, seeing her blush deepen. "I'll get the popcorn."

"B-but you already-" she stutters, holding the speaker in-between her petite hands. What dainty fingers.

"It's fine!" you call back, already out of the car.

She's probably pouting at you, though you can't see if that's true or not.

* * *

_Shoot._

It's Santana Lopez.

You don't even have to see her face to know it's her. She's waiting in line for snacks, the back of her head visible from where you enter.

There's rumors about that silky head of hair, apparently home to a collection of razor blades...

The two of you butt heads sometimes, partly because she herself likes starting rumors and partly because she's the reason you and your ex-boyfriend broke up last year.

You assume she's out with another boy toy of hers.

On her way out, she catches sight of you. "Fabray," is her curt way of greeting you.

"Santana," you greet back. "Out on a date?"

"Yeah, I volunteered to get snacks." She looks around for a second as if searching for your companion. "Out by yourself, I see? Or does your date not want to be seen with you?"

"I'm with a friend." Though you _wish _it was a date. "Yours sounds like a real gentleman, letting the lady do all the work."

There's a flash of anger (and maybe a hint of hurt) in her eyes. She scowls at you, large popcorn and two drinks in her arms.

"Can't a girl be a gentleman for once?"

You shrug. You're traditional anyway, so it doesn't matter to you. You'd prefer the guy to do the job.

"If I wasn't carrying this junk..." Santana trails off, giving you one more glare as she leaves.

You'll never understand why she dislikes you, seeing as it's her fault your single. But then again, maybe you should thank her for that- if things go well with Rachel, that is.

* * *

"How much was it?" Rachel immediately asks when you return.

You pass her the popcorn and her drink through the open window before getting in. Thankfully you remember her mentioning that she's vegan. You instead bought her butter-less popcorn and orange juice.

"Don't start that. I asked you out, so I'm paying."

_Dang it_. That didn't come out the way you wanted it to. You try to act as if it didn't happen- but you can't stop yourself from correcting the statement, "I mean- Just..."

Correcting the statement _badly_.

"I'll pay you back at work," Rachel supplies, turning little pink. You're not sure if her slight embarrassment is a good or bad sign.

"Sure," you agree, also pink. You unwrap your chocolate bar to avoid speaking, taking a small nibble.

You've never seen Barbra Streisand in anything before, so it's a nice surprise seeing her comedic side. It's a cute movie. Even her early outfit is adorable: the red coat, black tights, and bouncing skirt. It looks similar to something Rachel might wear.

You try to pay attention to the movie, but by the time Barbra Streisand (as Fanny) is singing, "I'm the Greatest Star," you can't take your eyes off her. Rachel, that is.

"_Did you ever hear the story about the traveling salesman?_" Fanny quickly sings/says.

You smile, trying to alternate between observing Rachel and watching the movie. It feels too much like a tennis match, so you stick to watching the girl beside you.

Rachel starts mouthing the words, "_With an American beauty **nose!**_"

She laughs quietly at certain parts, gushing "Aww," at others, and throughout it all she's smiling. The volume of her laugh grows as Fanny fumbles around in her roller skates.

You find yourself grinning like an idiot, happy just to be near her. Seeing her reaction to what makes her so cheerful affects you. It's contagious. It's as if there's a bubble of joy blanketed over your car; just for the two of you.

And right now, you realize faintly, you're gawking at her with awe- much like Fanny with her Nicky Arnstein.

"_Rachel Berry, Rachel Berry, what a beautiful, beautiful name..._" You think to yourself.

* * *

It hasn't even been an hour before your time with Rachel is interrupted.

You're sure the speakers are on full blast, but that doesn't stop a certain sound from entering your vehicle. _Moaning_?

It's coming from the next car over... You glance at Rachel, who simply shrugs, so you choose to ignore it. Unfortunately, the sound doesn't stop. It gets _louder_.

You sigh, irritated. It's probably some jerk and his girlfriend making out.

Wide-eyed, Rachel tries looks away and back to the screen. Her cheeks grow faintly pink as the car beside them starts squeaking, their neighbors getting more and more personal.

"I'll fix this," you reassure her, getting up.

"But, Quinn-" The door closing cuts her off.

It's a typical red sports car, spoiler included. The vehicle wiggles back and forth, the cause of said wiggling obscured in the back seat by the tinted windows.

You scrunch your nose in disgust, frowning as you knock three times against the window.

There's muffled cursing on the inside, sounds of fumbling, and a kiss or two before the window rolls down-

You had a few words in mind before knocking, only now you can't remember them...

It's Santana Lopez. Her hair looks like a messy jungle, the sides of her lips smeared with lipstick, and top is riding up. Brittany Pierce is lying down, and from here you can tell she's topless- thankfully, Santana blocks the view.

"Hey! Can't you see we're- _Shit_!"

She wipes frantically at her face, pulls down her top, and ruffles her hair in an attempt to fix it. "Fabray, get lost!"

Brittany does nothing other than greeting you, "Hi, Quinn."

"Hi." You smile smugly, admitting, "I heard rumors about you two, but I never would have-"

Santana finds a rumbled towel, throwing it over her girlfriend, screaming, "Pervert! Get outta here!"

You glare at her, snapping, "I'm only here because your PDA is interrupting the movie."

"Look, I know what this looks like, but..." She leans forward, voice low. You can see the expression in her eyes switching from harsh to vulnerable. "This is one of the few places I can _be_ with her. Do you get that? We'll leave, but _please_, just don't tell anyone."

"I didn't even know," you mumble. "I thought you two were just weirdly affectionate friends."

Brittany answers, "San doesn't want anyone to know, especially not her parents."

You're not even friends with Santana- if not borderline enemies- but you can see the situation from her perspective. Who knows how your mother would react. Your father's a different story. But then again, this would be a good opportunity for revenge. She did, after all, hook-up with your ex-boyfriend behind your back.

You sigh, "No one will believe me anyway."

In the end you let them leave. Revenge makes you guilty and self-hating. Also, you're gay, so it honestly doesn't matter what she did with your ex.

* * *

You come back in time to finish the movie, though Rachel frowns because you missed "Sadie, Sadie". ("Truly a wonderful, fairytale-esque number, Quinn.")

Soon enough, you're wondering why the movie seems to be getting sadder and sadder. Isn't it a comedy? Surely they don't call it Funny Girl for nothing.

The movie finishes with "My Man"; you're observing Rachel's reactions for the most part. You know you've never seen the movie before, nor heard the songs, but this one song is _oddly _familiar...

"_Oh, my man, I love him so, he'll never know..._"

* * *

"They could have fixed it."

You park in front of the store. Her car is only a few feet away.

Rachel thinks for a second. "They could have. But it's a true story, it's what really happened."

"_Based _on a true story," you correct. "They seemed so happy together. The writers could have changed it, right?"

She takes off her seat belt. "Like I said, 'It's what really happened'. I'm not one for gambling- well, when it comes to cards- but that's part of what ruined their relationship." She switches topics as she opens the door. "Anyway, I had a great time tonight, Quinn. Thank you."

You smile. "I could say the same. We should do this more often."

"That would be nice." She smiles back. "There's a sequel, you know."

"Really? Is Nicky Arnstein in it?"

There's a hint of mischievousness in her smile now. "Maybe?"

You raise an eyebrow in a mock-serious expression. "Hmm. No spoilers, then?"

Faintly pink-faced, Rachel stutters, "We could- if you're not busy next week, we could... I-I don't know, watch it together?"

Your smile turns into a charmed smirk. She's cute when she's confused. She's cute when she's rambling. And she's definitely adorable when nervous.

"I'd love to."

You mentally thank Santana; maybe you're getting somewhere now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: The Shoe Store (3/3?)  
**Pairing**: Rachel/Quinn  
**Author**: boredblueberry  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Length**: 1,000+ (2,109)  
**Spoilers**: None  
**Summary**: AU. Just because they're both gay and both happen to work in the same shoe store, doesn't mean they have to date... or does it?  
**A/N**: I was hoping this would be the end, but I don't want too much to happen in one chapter. Hope you like it. :)

* * *

When the next weekend rolls around, you find yourself excited for another workday at Payless ShoeSource. That's a first.

Before work begins, you shoot out of bed and sing in the shower. You make breakfast (90% of it is bacon) for your family, singing again. On the way there you sing along to Top 40 pop drivel on the radio, double-checking that all your windows are closed.

At work, you smile at every single living creature that strolls inside. They look at you strangely, wondering how working in a shoe store could be so enjoyable.

You probably look like a serial killer with that massive grin on your face, but honestly, you could care less.

"Hey, Quinn."

It's Santana and Brittany.

The smile is instantly wiped off.

"Hi," you greet stiffly, "welcome to Payless ShoeSource." You say the last part in monotone.

Brittany asks for more "kitty" shoes, so you point her in the direction of the children's section.

Unfortunately Santana hangs around the cashier counter. She looks through the shoe polish and shoe laces. You were hoping she would get lost and follow her girlfriend.

Again unfortunate, and with terrible timing, Rachel walks in for her shift. "Good morning, Quinn," she greets happily, oblivious to Santana as she waves at you.

When Rachel starts moving towards the back room to put her things away, Santana watches her retreat. When she's out of earshot, she turns to you.

Santana's smirk grows three times its size.

You glare at her.

"Is that your 'friend'?" She leans over the counter, crossing her arms as she gauges your oncoming reaction.

What kind of question is that? You nearly scoff. "Yeah, of course."

"The one from last week, your _date_?"

You manage to keep your composure, swallowing a possible stutter. "It wasn't a date," you say, almost indignantly.

It's useless; Santana's gifted with a wacky knack for reading people, and you're a walking book. She stares for a while, probably seeing an invisible bead of sweat on your brow that you for some reason can't feel.

"You like her, don't you?" she asks, though maybe she's already got that figured out.

You roll your eyes, cross your arms, then quickly check to see if Rachel is lurking nearby. "That's none of your business, Santana."

Brittany comes over, holding two pairs of children's shoes; another pair of sneakers and ballet flats. You hope her fat cat is a girl; the neon pink on those flats is blinding.

Santana smirks in that annoying way of hers. "You know, I could tell in one look; your wet, watering, wanting eyes, and that dopey smile... You _like _her."

"W-what?"

"It's cute," Brittany throws in, shrugging, "You're cute, she's cute. Why not?"

You already know that, but what's the point of Santana and Brittany knowing? You snap, "It's none of your-"

Santana interrupts, taking the shoes and putting them on the counter. "I'll tell you what... You gives these shoes to Britt, and I'll help you out."

You scoff this time. "_Help _me? Do you know how much these shoes cost- I seriously don't make much money here." Sure, you actually do have enough to buy Brittany's 'cat' shoes and more, but you honestly don't feel like offering charity.

"Yeah, well, Breadstix ain't hiring right now," she retorts. She gestures to Rachel, who is currently trying to help a frail old lady reach a pair of shoes (neither of them can reach the top shelf). "I'll talk to her for you."

It could only help, right?

"I know what's it like, and so do you, Cinderella. I can't keep secrets, but I know you can."

That isn't a lie. You know there's no benefit for Santana to gain from screwing over your chances with Rachel. And Brittany really seems to want those shoes...

"Fine," you growl, pulling out your wallet, "If she stops talking to me afterwards, you owe me $29.98."

Plus tax.

* * *

After buying the ridiculous shoes, you wait around at the cash register as Brittany browses around for shoes her own size. Santana casually approaches Rachel and the old woman.

Unable to reach the box of sandals, Rachel is yet again blind to the nearby stool. Both the customer and the employee are both under 5'2".

"Maybe we should get the cashier to help us," the old woman suggests worriedly, "she seems... tall?"

Rachel nods reluctantly. "Yes, Quinn is, but what if she's too busy?"

"Well, there's no one else around. Oh, she's looking this way, I think..."

You look away quickly, pretending to count change.

Rachel falls for it. "She's sorting change now."

This is all you can hear before Santana effortlessly snatches the pair of shoes off the shelf, passing the box to the old woman. Rachel pouts (you can feel the "dopey" smile tugging at your lips).

And just like that Santana's starting a conversation with her.

"Are these on sale?" the senior citizen wonders, suddenly blocking your view of the chatting pair.

"Uh, sure," you say carelessly, willing to burn the entire contents of your purse just to get her out of your way. "That'll be $14.99."

Arthritic fingers fumble with her purse, her coin purse, and finally her change. She tries to talk about the new mall less than a block away, complaining about prices and the gaggles of obnoxious teenagers. You nod along as if you know what she's talking about, but most of the time you try to avoid that mall- like Ms. Pillsbury avoiding dust bunnies.

When the old woman is gone, you return to watching Rachel and Santana.

Rachel looks confused at first, but soon enough her expression turns... _flustered_? She's blushing and waving a hand frantically, as if trying to switch conversation topics.

After the conversation Rachel retreats with the excuse of going to the bathroom. Santana walks to you, just as confused as Rachel had been. She presses a hand against her ear in annoyance, like Rachel's voice had been too loud.

"She was bein' all _vague _and whatnot. I asked her what she thought about you and-"

"And?" you press, panicking, "What did she say?"

Santana coughs into her fist before answering, "She said, and I quote, 'Quinn is so pretty! It is an absolute pleasure to be working with someone so diligent and considerate...'"

You blink as Santana continues her mock imitation of Rachel. You never expected her echoic memory to be so impressive.

"'...In fact, I still have those flats- oh, I'm so sorry; I'm getting off topic. She's a _wonderful _friend." Santana inserts her own interpretation here, "Blah, blah, blah, somethin' about a receipt and then something about a movie later today?"

You ignore her smarty smirk. "She offered to watch the sequel to the movie we saw at the drive-in."

"I think she likes you, too," Brittany says, coming back from wandering the aisles.

"But she called me a 'friend'," you argue.

Santana replies coolly, "That's what me and Britt have been calling each other for years."

"...So, let me get this straight-" you begin, squinting at them.

"Gay," Brittany butts in.

You shake your head. "Whatever. 'Friend' is code word for...?"

Santana and Brittany turn to face each other.

It's weird, you decide, noting the way the recently revealed couple ogles at each other. Santana's facial expression is so gentle; an odd contrast to her usual demeanor. Brittany's eyes are almost... watering? This must be an example of the "wet, watering, wanting eyes" Santana was referring to.

"Lesbian lover."

* * *

You have no idea what you're doing as you stand on her front porch. Why are you taking advice from the person who stole your ex-boyfriend and _her _secret girlfriend?

They gave you dating tips- for girls dating girls, of course.

You're not sure if they're accurate... Apparently the trick is to move slowly. "You don't want to scare her off with your advances," Brittany had said. They also advised to keep touching to a minimum, but try to touch her when the romantic scenes appear.

It rarely happens, but your palms are sweating. They're so damp that they leave a mark when you wipe them on the back of your skirt. Even if you make it far enough to reach out and actually touch Rachel, you're sure she'll retract thanks to your perspiration.

You're not usually so nervous, but the thought of flirting with Rachel... you're pretty darn sure you'll mess up.

**Ding-dong**! You hope the doorbell isn't wet now.

Rachel answers the door, beaming from ear to ear. "Quinn! I'm so glad you could make it."

"Glad to be here," you grin.

She lets you in and shows you around the living room and kitchen. "Would you like anything to drink? Juice, water, tea?" She stops at one of the kitchen stools, patting it as a gesture for you to sit.

"Uh, water would be nice." You sit as she grabs a water bottle from the fridge.

After handing you the water, Rachel skips over to the cupboard for some microwave popcorn, all while humming. You raise an eyebrow as you twist the lid off; it's definitely that same song Rachel had been singing along to times before.

You shrug it off.

* * *

The date- er, movie night doesn't go exactly as planned.

Rachel leads you to the living room couch where you sit with one throw pillow away from her. The popcorn is as gargantuan as the movie popcorn, the bowl warm and smooth against your lap.

There's a new leading man, James Caan, as the young song writer and new romantic interest, Billy Rose. You still miss Nicky Arnstein, but you watch intently anyway.

Remembering Santana and Brittany's advice, you know the romantic scenes should be easy to spot. But the touching...

_Where _exactly are you supposed to touch her?

A few inappropriate places come to mind, but any attempt at those would probably get you kicked out. Or arrested.

You decide to go for holding her hand.

You try to make your move the second the face powder is dumped over Billy Rose's head- but the combination of Fanny's laugh, Rachel's laugh, and the face powder tossed in Fanny's face stops your hand. You pull back instantly as Rachel turns to see your reaction, smiling brightly.

She sings along quietly to "Great Day" and even follows the hand clapping as the song's rhythm and mood shifts.

You soon forget about holding her hand when Nicky Arnstein reappears. "Oh!" you gasp as the song climaxes, "He's back!"

Rachel grins playfully. She doesn't comment as her eyes are glued to the screen.

"_I just want to climb into your back pocket and stay there all the time_," the onscreen Fanny cries. At this line you think faintly, if only Rachel was small enough to fit in your sundress pocket.

It's disappointing to see things get worse for Fanny in her relationship with Nick. At least Billy's around. You try to hide your frown as Rachel seems almost unfazed, but still interested- still, she's probably seen this movie hundreds of times.

By the time "How Lucky Can You Get?" is over you remember the romance and decide to try again. Fanny and Billy bicker over a French magazine as your hand quietly drags along.

Fanny yells, "_I look at the pictures, you creep!_"

Rachel's hand is just inches away, loose by her thigh. You can feel the roughness of the fabric and the beads of sweat along your palm as you get nearer and nearer.

"_You know the trouble, Fanny..._" Billy says, "_The trouble is- that I love you_." He repeats those three words.

_Oh God, oh God_, you think. This is definitely a romantic scene, there's even a confession of love.

"_You could have told me before, you know_?" Fanny replies, "_I mean, put your best foot forward now and then just for the hell of it_."

You're lucky this isn't a leather sofa, the sweat on your hands would probably make the most horrible squeaking sound.

You blindly continue for her hand as the music comes in and the couple kiss. Closer... closer... closer still... She doesn't notice how close you've gotten, the throw pillow that was once blocking you is now strewn on the carpet.

When you're centimeters away, you nearly gasp in relief. You jump at the opportunity and hazardously throw your hand over hers.

Her hand is softer than you imagined, smaller and more delicate, too.

Smile disappearing, Rachel is frozen for a second in silence.

She looks at you, confusion written all over her face as it drips into her voice,

"What are you doing?"

...That's not the reaction you were hoping for.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: The Shoe Store (4/5)  
**Pairing**: Rachel/Quinn  
**Author**: boredblueberry  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Length**: 1,000+ (1,902)  
**Spoilers**: None  
**Summary**: AU. Just because they're both gay and both happen to work in the same shoe store, doesn't mean they have to date... or does it?  
**A/N**: This whole fic was supposed to be just a oneshot- nearly everything was planned. It was a lot to fit into one part... So, I ended up separating it. I was so close to finishing it this time. Dang it.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

...That's not the reaction you were hoping for.

You stare at her, finding her facial expression unreadable.

A-are... your hands _sweating_?

You swallow what feels like a boulder lodged in your throat, unable to speak. But even if you could say anything, you'd probably end up making the situation worse than it already is.

You swallow again, yanking your hand away guiltily.

"Oh!" you gasp, as if you hadn't just spent the last five seconds holding her hand. "Sorry, I didn't notice..."

As usual, Rachel believes you. She always does.

The smile comes back to her face as she turns to the TV. "It's fine," she replies.

Is there a hint of panic in her voice, or are you just hallucinating?

You turn back to the TV, too, but unlike Rachel, you're stuck thinking about it. Even if it was the back of her hand, the size of it seemed to fit perfectly in yours. It wasn't at all like holding hands with boys; rough, chapped, and large (no offence). Maybe your ex-boyfriend didn't know how to use moisturizer.

It suddenly feels as if you've been burned. Did she not want to hold your hand at all, or are you moving too fast for her?

It's the first time you've held hands with a girl and you've gone and ruined it.

The two of you continue watching the movie in silence. This time it's easier to keep your eyes off her so you don't know if she's still smiling.

At the end of the night, Rachel walks you to the door to say goodbye.

"Well, I'll see you at work tomorrow."

You nod. "Yeah."

"I had fun," she says.

You nod again. "Yeah."

"Thanks for coming over."

Stiffly, you nod once more. "Yeah."

_Say something else, damn it!_

Rachel raises an eyebrow at you, catching onto your odd behavior. You're normally a lot more talkative around her.

"Okay," she says finally, "Bye."

Stupidly, you give her a wave despite the fact that she's _right _in front of you. "Bye."

Is she going to shut the door in your face, or are you supposed to turn around?

She's still looking at you, waiting for you to do the latter. She blinks worriedly as she holds onto the doorknob, unintentionally adorable.

"Goodnight," you say dumbly, feeling worse by the minute.

Rachel smiles. "Sweet dreams," she says sweetly, slowly closing the door. You use it as a signal to turn away.

You slap your forehead the second you're in your car. Hard enough to leave a mark.

_Idiot._

* * *

You feel like a zombie at work the next day.

There's no passion in your work (you never had any at this job in the first place), stacking shoes with indifference. You greet customers with a bored tone and a glazed look in your eyes- everyone must think you're a snooty jerk who belongs at the overpriced mall. Or maybe a robot.

Just when you're starting to like this job, you're back to being apathetic, lazy, yet obedient. Maybe having an interest in Rachel made all the difference.

Your coworker doesn't say hi the same way she did before; she says it, but her catchy enthusiasm is lacking. Like you, her smile is forced.

Did holding hands bother her _that _much?

She said it was fine, believing it to be an accident. Was that true?

You're at the cash register when you feel her gawking at the side of your head. You try to meet her gaze, but she pretends like it doesn't happen, returning to work. She bustles around like a worker bee, organizing the shoes in order from size, biggest to smallest.

You want to talk to her about it, but it's tough when- well, to be honest, she's sort of avoiding you.

* * *

At break, you purposely sit next to her.

"Hello," you greet.

"Hello," she replies.

Okay, so maybe she isn't really avoiding you. But... she certainly doesn't seem as _cheery _as usual.

She's munching away at her organic granola bar, attempting to organize her purse at the same time. Her multitasking isn't very effective, though, crumbs from her snack keep falling into her purse.

They say you can learn a lot looking through the contents of a woman's purse. Glancing at the scattered items on the table don't teach you much about Rachel; theatre tickets, bedazzled phone, strawberry flavored lip gloss, coin purse, receipt-

"Huh," you say, finding a good conversation starter, "this is from here."

Looking closely, you notice the receipt is from 6 months ago. 6 months ago you were still working here and dating your stupid ex-boyfriend. But Rachel wasn't working here before...

It also says, "_Cashier: Quinn_".

You blink, holding the paper so close to your face that it touches your nose. "We've met before apparently?"

She jumps slightly and snatches the paper away from you. "Apparently so-"

"What did you buy?" you question. You don't mean to cut her off, but the idea is intriguing. How did you not remember her?

Rachel turns the faintest pink at your sudden interest. She pushes away from the table to face you and gestures at her feet.

"You sold me these flats," she explains.

Trying not to check out her legs again, you focus on her shoes; they're tiny and pink, a perfect fit for Rachel.

You remember Rachel's words from Santana: "_'...In fact, I still have those flats- oh, I'm so sorry; I'm getting off topic. She's a wonderful friend. Blah, blah, blah, somethin' about a receipt and then something about a movie later today?_"

Who keeps a receipt from 6 months ago?

It's the only one in the pile.

"Hmm," you hum. Your eyebrows furrow on their own accord. "I'm surprised I don't remember it. Did I do anything stupid?"

Rachel stares at you as if it's impossible for Quinn Fabray to do anything stupid.

"You were very sweet," she admits, really blushing, "I couldn't reach the shelf, so you grabbed the box for me- you even helped me try them on." She murmurs the next part to herself, "Much like Cinderella..."

Cinderella? You'd never be caught dead touching a customer's feet, which is ironic for someone working in a shoe store.

But what does this mean? You're baffled and speechless, your sense of hope rising up like a water fountain. Wait, how is this a good sign? No, who cares, she called you "sweet"!

You clear the surprise out of your throat. "A-and?"

Rachel smiles softly and looks away from your ogling eyes. She shrugs and answers, "I was looking for jobs at the time, and I think meeting you solidified my decision in applying here."

You grin at her use of 'solidify', opening your mouth-

only to be interrupted by the call of your next customer.

* * *

It's Brittany S. Pierce, interrupting your wonderful break for a petty shoe issue.

"These don't fit Lord Tubbington."

Dubiously, you raise an eyebrow. Is her cat really _that _fat?

Answering your internal question, Brittany holds up Lord Tubbington to show you.

"Oh my God," you mutter in disbelief, eyeing the cat's rolls of vibrating fat as he purrs. His fat has surpassed your expectations.

Brittany is unfazed and sets him down to dig into her bag to produce the flats. "They fit Charity, but she really likes sneakers and Lord Tubbington is really into pink these days."

The fat cat meows in affirmation, tail curling around his mistress's leg.

You ask, "...Do you think the next size up will fit him?"

Brittany shakes her head. "I'd like to return these, actually."

Payless ShoeSource is pretty lenient with their return policy. As long as the customer has the receipt and original packaging. You're actually pretty glad. This means you get your money back for these hideous shoes (not counting the sneakers Charity apparently likes).

Before you can even touch the register, Ms. Pillsbury pounces.

She runs to the counter, red hair tousled from the leap away from her office. She shudders when she spots the obese beast.

"I'm afraid you can't return those!" she exclaims, holding a hand up to prevent the transaction. She continues, sounding like a police officer in duty, "These shoes go against our health code!"

You gawk at her, then Brittany (Lord Tubbington is hidden by the height of the counter), suddenly feeling like you've been launched into a TV show.

Since when did this store have a health code? This isn't a restaurant.

"And bringing animals into the store is prohibited. I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

Brittany frowns. "But..."

Sensing his mistress's distress, Lord Tubbington attempts to storm out of the building, but is stopped by the glass door.

When the pair leave, your boss panics at the mess they left. There's patches of cat hair on the floor and... either Brittany dropped an invisible water bottle, or her fat cat peed out of spite.

Ms. Pillsbury shudders again and rushes into her office to recover from the close encounter with the germy kind.

Politely, you're forced to clean the carpet.

* * *

Thankfully, it's just water.

What's better is Rachel offering to help you. She doesn't even verbally ask you, instead she grasps your wrist before you can search for cleaning supplies.

"That won't be necessary, Quinn," she informs you. "I'll fetch the vacuum."

"Uh," you begin, but she's already gone. When she comes back she has a bucket of water, sponges, the vacuum cleaner, and several bottles of cleaning products.

After sucking up the cat hair with the vacuum, she practically drowns the carpet with carpet cleaner, gets on her knees, and dons a disposable medical mask.

You roll up your sleeves and shove a sponge into the water bucket.

"About last night..." you trail off, wondering if it's even passed her mind today.

Rachel stops, setting down the empty bottle of toxic chemicals. She grabs a sponge as she confesses, "I'm not gay."

You cough.

She knows you were coming onto her last night. She knows how you feel about her.

Forgetting to wring it out, you drop the inflated sponge on the floor. It makes a horrible **splat** sound, an equivalent to the noise your heart would make if she had ripped it out of your chest and smashed against the wet carpet. **Splat, splat, splat. Squelch**.

_Ouch_. Is this what heart burn feels like?

Seeing your tense face, she corrects, "I don't mean to say that I'm not romantically or sexually interested in girls, it's just that I prefer not to label myself, or my feelings. If I fall in love with someone, I fall in love with the _person_- gender isn't a preventative factor."

You pick up the sponge and wring it out in relief.

"So you knew then, that I was trying to hold your hand?"

The question is hard for you to ask; you look away from her and scrub in circular motions.

"For a second, yes. But when you apologized for it, I thought it was an accident."

An accident. You shouldn't have backed out so quickly. There's a _small _possibility that she wanted to hold your hand, too.

She wrings out her sponge and pats at the wet spots. She takes yours and leaves both sponges in the bucket. She stands up and starts to make her way to the back room, leaving you to follow-

The next customer walks in.

_Damn it!_


End file.
